


muted

by bluecarrot



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Mindless Fluff, Non-Verbal, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8181871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: Hamilton talks too much; Burr doesn't talk at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> a bit of quickie trash, written 10/1/16  
> go ahead & try to shame me; i don't even fucking care.

Alexander Hamilton smokes. He doesn't want to do it; he doesn't even really consider himself a smoker. Certainly he never buys cigarettes (or other substances). But somehow he finds himself outside over and over, hanging by a brick wall, fumbling with a lighter.

Mostly he bums them.

Every so often he'll steal a pack from the corner store, heart beating a little faster, winking at the pretty girl who works there. She never says anything -- not to him or to her boss. She's tall, steady, hair to her waist in neat braids. She just quirks an eyebrow and ignores him.

And Alex goes outside and walks easy down the street a few blocks, til he's far enough away, before he peels off the cellophane and lights up.

 

Sometimes he goes to school. Sometimes he doesn't. He's eighteen now, they can't make him, and nobody at home cares where he is or what he does.

Sometimes he goes to the park instead. There are kids playing there, sometimes, during the day at least. He likes to watch the kids. Think about what they'll be when they grow up. He gives them elaborate futures, happy or sad: astronaut, doctor, dealer, dead. The deaths are the most satisfying -- there is a lot of pleasure in a true ending -- but he doesn't like to indulge too often. Cutting classes, smoking, fantasizing, that's indulgence enough.

Another guy joins him every so often. There's only one bench, so they end up sitting together. They don't talk. Ever. They just sit.

And then Alex does. He's had a shitty week, okay, and he just starts talking about it. The words fall out of him; they're ugly and honest.

The other one doesn't react much, doesn't talk at all. Just nods or looks thoughtful or shrugs, lightly.

"Well," says Alex, finally. "Thanks, man."

The guy nods.

 

The next day he's there again. And then it's the weekend, and then it's raining, so Alex goes back to school and sits in class and stares out the window and the only interesting thing in the day is when a pencil breaks and the graphite goes into somebody's eye.

 

Thursday Alex goes back and sits alone. 

Friday they sit together.

 

It starts to be a habit. He still doesn't know his name -- doesn't know shit about him except he's good to talk to. They smoke together in silence and sometimes Alex begs a cigarette and sometimes he shares one of his own, which he's never done before and feels kind of weird about, honestly, except --

At night he opens up the window in his room and leans out and flicks the lighter again and again and thinks about talking to him. Wonders what his voice sounds like. Wonders what he'd have to say.

 

There's nothing strange in this. There's nothing strange in this.

 

School ends. He's got nothing to do, nowhere to go, but work and sleep and the bench at the park.

And it's warmer now. The sun is warmer; the air is warmer, even without the sun. He learns the guy's arms, his shape in a t-shirt, the slight bit of skin between shoe and pantsleg, when he draws up his feet on the bench and rests his arms on his knees, and sighs. He learns the shape of his hands and the smooth skin of his wrists and that his mouth is chapped, even in the summer, which means he chews on it.

He still doesn't talk.

Alex finds himself unable to shut up.

 

He looks at his own hands, his own wrists, in the halflight of a street lamp coming in to his bedroom. Thinks about how his nails are yellowed from nicotine. Wonders if --

He shouldn't wonder that.

But he finds himself visiting every day, just to stop by, just to check. Mostly the bench is empty, and he gets a heavy pressure in his chest and tries not to think about it too hard.

 

The leaves are turning red and falling off the trees when he says: "I missed you. These last couple of days."

The guy starts a little. Blinks. His eyes are soft and dark.

"Where do you go? What do you do?"

No answer.

"I'm not going to judge you, man. You know -- pretty much everything about me, I guess, by now." 

\-- but not quite everything. Alex flicks ash.

The guy shifts, stretching to get out a new cigarette; he settles again and their legs touch from knee to hip.

Alex shuts his eyes. Tries not to move. He's not going to come back here. He can't. This is the last time. He'll just ... he'll just keep this memory, instead. He can revisit it at night. Nobody needs to know.

A finger pokes into his ribs -- a hand touches his thigh -- he flushes pink -- and then they're together, they're kissing, and he didn't need to say anything after all.

**Author's Note:**

> blah blah  
> @littledeconstruction  
> on tumblr


End file.
